Skin and Bones
by neverbirds
Summary: "Bakura has a body, and eyes that are his own, and skin that's a shade too dark and breath that's a shade too laboured." YBxM, in a way.


**WARNINGS: dub-con, masochism, language.**

_AN: Er, I'm not really sure what this is. It started as a sort of fluffy 'Bakura gets used to having a body' fic, but for some reason deranged and needy Marik is much more fun. Forgive me, I'm rusty (it's been a while) and I'm taking risks and experimenting. _

He pauses.

He chokes, makes a strangled noise somewhere behind his fat, lolling tongue. His eyes bulge; his clumsy, clockwork fingers twitch. The precise mechanisms of his organs groan and lurch into motion; his stomach, his throat oil with spit and bile. His lungs wheeze in, out. In, out. Bakura's body splutters into motion.

His heart beats.

Bakura opens his eyes, and looks right at me.

And they really are. His eyes, I mean. Dark and round, like hard, smooth pebbles.

I always thought they'd be blue, pale and dilute but dark and mesmerising when he's angry, or protective, or – passionate. Day and night. Ryou and Bakura, I guess.

But instead, they're rocks. Hard and unflinching. Shade-less. I suppose I always did overestimate his capacity for emotion.

Bakura has a body, and eyes that are his own, and skin that's a shade too dark and breath that's a shade too laboured.

"Marik," he murmurs, and it sounds like a purr. Like my name got caught in his throat a while ago and he's only just figured how to work his mouth around it. "How –"

I avoid the question. I tell him about every curve, every angle of his new body, and breath and twitch and heartbeat. I tell him about his eyes, dark and smooth; I tell him the tales of his skin.

It takes him a while to get used to it. I mean – living, that is. He forgets that he's supposed to eat and sleep and get angry when I tell him what to do. I would say he's a shadow of his former self, but. You get the picture.

There's a little part of me which can't wait until the shell formerly known as Bakura cracks. I sit and wait and listen to him talk about _why do you humans_ _need to sleep anyway, there's so much else to be done _and I reply – but you're human too, Bakura – and it all seems so normal. I miss the glint in his eye, his teeth on my cheek as he whispers his plans, the way my breath would catch. I miss the thrill of stealing, taking Ryou's body away from him.

But for now we go through the motions. He asks me why I'm still here. I don't reply, because I don't have an answer. If I told him I wanted what I'd always wanted, we'd both know I was lying.

One night, Bakura has a nightmare. He dreams of fire and screaming and love, and he wakes up in a tangled mess of sheets and laboured breath. He looks into my eyes and I murmur, hey, it's okay. I heard you shout, you sounded in pain, so I ran in. You had a nightmare, it's normal. You're ok now. His eyes linger a little too long on the chair pulled up by his bed (it's been like that since you moved in, Bakura, why are you being so paranoid?) and he tells me he doesn't feel very much like living anymore, and I think he might throw up. I tangle my fingers in his hair and tell him it's not so bad, really, and I can't quite believe that it's _his skin_ I'm touching.

Bakura doesn't sleep well after that. He stays up, making plans we both know won't happen, his mind whirring and moving faster than his body can until he collapses. And then he dreams, twitching restlessly in his sleep, until he wakes up with his heart beat beat beating in its hollow tin cage. He'll come down in the morning (and I'm always up before him, and he never questions why), eyes red and black and unseeing. I'll make him eat, and he'll pull a face, and it's just habit.

One night, I find him crying. I hush him, and ask him why, and he says he doesn't know. And I say – well, that's very human of you, isn't it? And he looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time since we got into this mess.

Yes, he replies. I guess it is.

It takes him a while, but he gets used to living. He hates it, but we get by.

One day, he wanted to go outside. I started to follow him and he told me no. Fire bubbled in my blood and I grinned - Bakura, you can't get away that easily, and for some reason he started to look worried.

There was one time – he was sat, eyes closed, breathing, and I just sat and stared at him, the air going in and out of his lungs, his skin shifting. I said his name, and his eyes snapped open – Don't call me that. He sounded murderous. I was thrilled.

Why not, I smiled.

Because that's not – that's not my name, he hissed, and something inside of me wanted to laugh.

Well, what is, then? And he didn't answer, because he didn't know, so he smashed his fist into the wall and there was nothing more I wanted in that moment, nothing more than him to smash his knuckles into my mouth, make me bleed, give me the thrill of violence and the intimacy of deliberately _hurting _somebody, but the moment passed and suddenly I felt very alone.

I guess I was jealous. Guilty of the sin of Envy. Because it was always there, wasn't it? The darkness that lingered in the corners of my brain, pushed and pulled and whispered. But now he was alone, wasn't forced to share himself, and for some reason that made me want to own him more. If I couldn't be alone, neither should he. I guess it was a possessive thing. I guess it was a love thing, but that's not nearly as important as an obsession.

He'd disappear for days, but I didn't mind, because he always came back. And he always would, wouldn't he? I didn't create him, and I didn't destroy him, but I was there for the ride and he had nothing else to cling to. We didn't talk much, either. I guess there wasn't much to say. Sometimes I asked him if he'd been to see Ryou, and sometimes he'd ask me how he got here, and neither of us ever had any answers. And then one day he didn't have a nightmare, and he was eating without me telling him to, and I couldn't stop sobbing. I wanted nothing more than for him to hold me and tell me he still needed me and he's sorry, it doesn't matter what he's sorry for, only that it is, and that everything will be ok but – he doesn't. He looks at me, his lip curling in disgust, and that's all I need to know.

And that darkness – that itch in my soul – just kept on pushing and pulsing and telling me sweet nothings and pretty soon I felt like glass waiting to be broken. Bakura tells me he's going to leave, and I scream – I push him against the wall and our faces are _so close_, and I tell him we had a _deal_ and he said – why?

Because you found me, Bakura. You sought me out and you found me, and you made a deal and we're _partners_, only I guess we haven't been for a long time. You need me, remember? You need me.

And he looks at me, and hits me. I take off my shirt and say, well, you might as well know the big secret, then. He touches the scars on my back and I shiver, and there's blood dripping down my chin from where his claws bit into my mouth, and I can't stop laughing and the blood drips down onto his skin, and he fucks me and I don't know why and I don't think he does, either. I've never felt more alive.

Later he kisses me on the mouth and for some reason it feels like a goodbye. We lay on the floor and both of us are bleeding and it all seems so simple, this, just lying here and breathing and needing.

And Bakura, he turns to me and says – I remember. And I don't know what it means, but I know it must be important, and like always I can't take my eyes off of him.

He says – I think I might be a demon. And all I say is: no, it's called being human.


End file.
